


5. Desperate Measures

by somepeoplearewild



Series: Ever After Oneshot Series [5]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Awkwardness, Humor, M/M, Makeover, Nerd Louis, Pining, Popular Zayn, Romance, Self Confidence Issues, french bread, louis is really dramatic, themes of depression, this is probably really offensive, yeah this is pretty cliche except i'm really weird so it's going to reflect that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somepeoplearewild/pseuds/somepeoplearewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis pines after Zayn. But Zayn is popular and he is not, so he gets a new look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gonna make a heartthrob out of me

 

  
**"Gonna make a heartthrob out of me**   
**Just a bit of minor surgery**   
**These desperate times call for**   
**Desperate measures"**   
**Desperate Measures – Marianas Trench**

He stares down at his algebra homework—this is algebra isn’t it? Maybe it’s geometry. Has he ended up in that pre-calculus class his mum had threatened him with during class sign up last year?

Oh, no.

He is.

What has he done to deserve this?!

Why are there so many numbers?!

What’s a parabo—Hold on… this is algebra… maybe... possibly…?

He slams his face against his desk, paying no attention to his table partner—a cute little blonde girl with a fake flower crown woven into her hair— because she can squeak all she likes but _his_ distress over his wellbeing definitely runs deeper than _her_ distress over his wellbeing.

“Um.. Louis?” she says timidly. She sounds like Fluttershy, and if anyone ever asks Louis why he can make that comparison it can be entirely attributed to the life of a boy with four sisters. “Are you… are you okay?”

“Yeh,” Louis grunts into the fake wood panelling of the desk. “Just do me a favour,” he sniffs, sitting up and grabbing his backpack. He puts it on the table and pushes his face into it. “Smother me.”

She gasps. She’s so innocent. So nice and so lovely. Makes Louis _sick_.

“Go on. Don’t be shy. Go on and put an end to my sad life.”

Sarah Loveheart (Yeah, _Loveheart_. Even her last name for god’s sake) rubs Louis’ back awkwardly and picks up his pencil, filling in the last few problems for him just before the bell rings.

Louis sighs and lifts his head out of his backpack, feeling so not dead it makes him want to rip the flowers out of her hair. Of course he won’t because she could very well kick his arse, but it’s always the thought that gets him through carrying on in this mediocre world.

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles as he passes her by to get the fuq out of there. _What even is algebra?_

Louis sniffles to himself, not really crying but playing on his feelings of self-pity. He isn’t even a smart nerd. What point is there to live if he can’t do simple math? Then again, what point is there to die if he can’t figure out how to write a suicide note on his calculator?

He guides himself down the hallway, allows himself a pitiful glance at the indie-jock-hipster-peoplewholistentoLilWayneandstilldotheCupidShuffle crowd aka the Zayn-Liam-Harry-Niall pack. They’re so cool that they don’t need to be smart. Sadly, Louis will never be so _smart_ that he doesn’t need to be _cool_. He’ll just be that gay kid who had to kiss a girl onstage and wears TOMS because he’s a faggot.

 _They_ all wear things like leather and letterman jackets and boots and Adidas and Nike: just do shit. They all probably have massive popular kid orgies and make out with dudes and don’t get shit for it because they’re at the top of the food chain. If this was a food pyramid, however, they’d be at the bottom because they’re the most important. They are whole wheat. Louis is fats and carbohydrates. He’s that pointy bit at the top symbolic of awkward boners. He’s the last bitch piece the slaves had to haul all the way up in the sweltering heat not because it was important but because it was fucking pointy.

And of course right at that moment of wistful glancing Zayn Baguette Malik and his little troop of dinner rolls just had to look up long enough to laugh at Louis’ pathetic existence.

Louis steps over the kid who’s just fallen face first in the middle of the hallway. He doesn’t stop to help pick up the kid’s papers because Louis has enough problems in his life right now what with the object of his mortal desires laughing at him.

“Louis! Louis!”

Louis groans as the squeaky voice of his younger sister follows him down the hallway. As if he wasn’t subject to enough ridicule and social degradation, he just had to be associated with lowerclassmen (lowerclasswomen?).

“Louis!” she pants, having finally caught up to him. Being in track really helped with hurdling over that poor boy in the floor. “Louis, I’ve got to…” She holds up a finger while she catches her breath. “Mum just…” Okay, maybe she’s a little more excited than overexerted. Maybe she’ll hyperventilate. Maybe Louis will temporarily only have three sisters. _Oh, the joy_.

“Cousin… Aisling… _here_.”

And now it makes sense why Lottie is making him late to his next class and also dying but mostly making him late to his next class.

You know the phrase _shit hits the fan_? Well, it should be _Aisling hits the fan_ because Cousin Aisling is literal shit in the wind—no. Shit in the _hurricane_. The only good she brings is a constant distraction for the girls so Louis can wallow without someone braiding his too-long hair. (What point is there in getting it cut if life is still a thing?)

Louis stares at Lottie, waiting for her to walk away. And she does. After she hugs him, embrace unreturned because who does she think Louis is? He’s in the middle of an existential crisis; he can’t be expected to spend his energy hugging at a time like this. He’s barely got any in the first place, either from this spiralling galaxy of depression or from routinely lying in bed with a box of pizza.

He sighs deeply. This is his life.

[][][][]

At around five, Louis finally climbs up the steps to the backdoor of his house. Just on the other side of that eight-centimetre thick piece of wood is hell and all its demons—and Satan.

But Felicite is only six, so maybe he should wait until she’s older to declare her the Lord of All Evil (even if she is that now).

Grudgingly, Louis twists the brass knob and winces as the sound of screaming girls hits him like a wall of giggling, squealing, _murderous_ cement.

“I hate my life,” he says simply as he witnesses the destruction and chaos currently taking place in the Tomlinson residence.

For starters, there’s flour _everywhere_. In the floor. Across the counters. On a sticky hand going into a toddler’s mouth. Felicite is chasing Lottie around the room, clapping her powder-covered hands over her sister’s hair and giggling maniacally as the older screams in displeasure. ( _See_? Satan.) The other toddler is just throwing the flour on herself, up in the air like a shower of cocaine. And last but not least, there’s the twenty-two year old fool head-banging (with terrible technique he might add) to a screamo version of My Love by Justin Timberlake.

Her shaggy black hair whips flour around as the twin on the counter (Louis’ not quite sure which one it is—he definitely knows it’s either Daisy or Phoebe) cries his name in joy and makes grabby hands at him. The white-dusted face, belonging to the one who’s far too old to be doing this, crunches up into a devious smile at the sight of her only sane cousin.

“Louis.”

“No.” Louis starts to back out of the door again, fleeing the advances of his cracked cousin. She honestly looks like she’s about to eat his heart. She can just go ahead and put those arms down because Louis is not having any of that. Not in a box with a fox. Not with a mouse in a house. He will not hug her, not for shit. He does not like that crazy bitch.

“No,” he repeats more urgently, honestly fearing for his life.

“Louis, I fucking missed you!”

And fuck everything. Fuck the world. Fuck the stars. Fuck the sky. Fuck the ocean. Fuck every little grain of sand. Fuck’m in the arse, Sam-I-Am.

Her gross, powdery arms fly around Louis, trapping him as she bounces and squeals. _In the arse_.

“You’ve gotten so—” Of course, she has to pause and reconsider what she was going to say. Big is not exactly the word she would use; he’s still pretty short. “… Your hair is so long!”

‘ _Among other things_ ,’ he thinks, but he doesn’t tell her that because it’s still his cousin, and he’d rather use his words to say something like, “Stop touching me.”

“Aww. S’little Louis got his knickers in a twist?” She coos over him and pulls him the rest of the way into the house.

Louis grumbles something around the lines of “I literally hate everything,” and it’s not so much to Aisling as it is to whatever higher being is doing this to him.  He twists out of her grip, all sluggish and apathetically like he doesn’t really want to choke on a stray Lego (even though he does), then drags himself up to his room.

But of course, Aisling can’t take a hint and follows him asking all these stupid questions. ‘ _Are you okay?_ ’ ‘ _What’s wrong, Louis?_ ’ “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I am not discussing my doomed fate with you, okay?” Louis rolls in his bed and stares at the wall, too deep in his hole of misery to be bothered about the flour rubbing all over his sheets. It’ll be a little bit of everywhere for the next few months anyway.

He hears the creaking of his desk chair being sat in—his desk chair which he never even uses because his desk is piled with clothes and papers and half-eaten candies. Gross, he knows; he just doesn’t care. He remembers that at some point he meant to‘ _put the clothes away in a few minutes_ ’ or ‘ _sort the papers after school_ ’ or ‘ _finish the treat tomorrow_ ’. But that’s just Louis Tomlinson, isn’t it? Making promises to be a better person and making promises to keep those promises—mentally swearing to himself tomorrow will be the start of something new— then putting it off because he’s just too _something_ to get the job done: hot, cold, tired, sad, hungry, busy (being not busy), short (in his defence that bookshelf is far too high to actually use without dying), too _Louis_.

Louis is a procrastinator. And pathetic. And he knows that. And he accepts that. But he doesn’t _like_ that.

He wants to be one of those people who not only wakes up before the arse crack of dawn (his _first_ alarm is set for 4:28 every morning (he sets nine)), but also gets out of bed (without all of them going off before he even considers moving) in time to shower and fix his hair and eat a good meal and brush his teeth and not have to run to his mother’s car in his boxers and attempt to dress on the way to school in a car full of screaming little girls.

Louis wants to be that guy who perfects a scale model of _La Pietà_ for his Art History project (Zayn) and gets track  & field recognised on the morning announcements for the first time in years (Liam) and pulls anyone even though he changes his gender preference every five seconds (Harry). He wants to be that guy who started an impromptu flash mob to Cupid Shuffle featuring the entirety of Lunch B. How did Niall even fucking _do_ that?!

Louis lets out a huff of frustration because he can’t even get his sisters to clap their hands when they’re happy and they know it.

“C’mon, Lou. Don’t be like that.”

“Like _what_?” he snaps, flopping onto his back and giving her a nice, hard glare. Aisling will never understand. She may be up to her frickin neck in batshitcrazy, but she’s attractive at least. With energy like hers, she could probably perform plastic surgery on herself in the morning and jog twice around the neighbourhood before she’d even think about taking a rest. Then again, she probably has to compensate in looks for her mental instability so that men will put up with her.

“All depressed and stuff.” Her brown eyes flicker down then back up with this sympathetic _look_ that just infuriates Louis because how _dare_ she feel sorry for him! He’s pathetic. He knows. He doesn’t need another person telling him he’d feel better if he’d just _do something_ when he knows himself better than to imagine he’d do _any_ fucking thing at this point. He’s so goddamn over it. He’s done trying. He’ll eat and breathe and sleep and age in this same room until he rots with a Staples nametag on his chest.

“Well pardon me for having an existential crisis. I didn’t exactly ask for you to involve yourself in my plethora of shitastic emotions, did I? No, and I don’t particularly appreciate that misguided look of sympathy either, but by all means continue to stare at me like I’m an Olympic swimmer turned paraplegic. There is no greater f-”

“Oh my god, Louis. Shut. Up.”

Louis’ mouth snaps shut, and he glowers at her. How dare she interrupt the externalisation of his sorrows- the exposition of his burdens- the _expression_ of his _grie-_

She returns his scowl with a roll of the eyes and the beginnings of a fond smile. “You are the most dramatic person I have ever met in my entire life, Louis, _you_.”

He gasps, offended. He is not dramatic. “I am not dramatic.”

“You are dramatic,” Aisling nods slowly.

“I’m not arguing with you about this. I possess this body and inhabit this mind therefore I shall decide what I am and what I am not.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“Get out of my room.”

“Alright,” she sighs, a sly grin hiding in the corners of her mouth.

Louis notices this along with the fact that that was _way_ too easy. Aisling never goes down without a fight. He still remembers both their dads trying to restrain her as his mother pressed her jaw open and Aisling’s mother attempted to pour cough medicine in her mouth. In the end, their parents gave up and put NyQuil in her PB &J, which scares Louis because (1) that’s such bad parenting, and (2) he did not have to drug her to get her cooperation.

That crazy bitch is up to something.

But he’s already comfortable so…

[][][][]

“WAKE UP, LOUIS, AND GET DRESSED!”

Louis groans into his pillow. This is not how he wants to start his day: with _Ashley… Asha… Ashhh… Aisling!_ Aisling screaming into his ear like a fucking banshee. It’s too early to be thinking about names. He pulls the blanket over his head to muffle her grating voice and block out the sunlight.

_sunlight._

_s u n l i g h t_ …

Louis shoots straight up in bed, frantically searching his bed for that dinosaur of a phone he still uses. He grabs it and flips it open with a cry of distress because it is _eight-forty_ , which translates to _so fucking late for school_.

“Why didn’t you go off?! You stupid piece of shit,” Louis throws it down on the bed and scrambles over to his closet.

“Aren’t you going to shower?”

He starts, one leg in his last-resort sweats, and topples over into a pile of clothes on the floor. “Why are you in my room? _Shit_.” He wrestles his other leg in the over-sized, heather monstrosity, then switches his night shirt for this terrible, striped mess his mother had bought him last year. It’s tight and stupid-looking but he hasn’t got anything else, so….

“I’m going to be so fucking late,” he mutters under his breath, rushing on deodorant and a beanie and what else does he need…? Oh, right! Glasses.

“No, you’re not.”

Louis freezes mid-wiggle, tangled in the grey of his jacket. “What do you mean?”

“We’re going out today!” she exclaims as she throws her hands in the air.

His face goes blank. “What?”

“Shopping!”

“What.”

“Makeover time!”

“ _What_.”

“Yea!”

“ _NO_.”

Aisling’s excited smile never fades. It actually _grows_. Her eyes get huge with a manic glint in them, and oh look there’s that _eat your heart_ face again. “Yes. We’re going to go shopping and cut your hair so you don’t look like a willow tree and then I’m going to teach you how to put in those contacts I know you have. I know you have them, Louis. I know.”

“But I have school-”

“And I handled that already.”

“But-”

“I have money too.”

“Don’t use your money on me,” Louis moans, shouldering his backpack.

“It’s not _my_ money. It’s Daddy’s money. He told me I should like get some new clothes or something… something about my sneakers?… I don’t know, but I’m definitely not giving up my darling babies for an afternoon of unsweetened tea with people I don’t even like.”

“Why must you do this to me?”

“Cos we both know you won’t do it yourself,” she smirks, effectively shutting Louis up.

He realises now that this may be the shooting star of opportunity he’s been waiting for. A blessing disguised as Aisling. It’s fate lending him a hand, a sign at the fork in the road pointing to the path he’s destined for. This is in the will _of the universe_.

“Can you maybe continue your melodramatic inner monologue in the car please? We only have eight hours.”

Louis grumbles at her, but still follows her down the dirt path toward his city of diamonds.

 

[][][][]

“Clothes are first,” Aisling notifies Louis as they walk through the shopping centre. She stops suddenly and trails behind him… checking him out?

“ _What_ are you _doing_?” Louis hands go to cover his bum, but she swats them away. Then (because she obviously wants Louis to die of embarrassment) she pulls the fabric of his loose sweatpants tight across his backside and hums in critique despite his squawks of ‘ _being incested please anyone god help me_ ’.

“Well, I can’t very well gage your figure if it’s all covered up. We need to find clothes that flatter you. Starting with Blue Banana. Don’t even argue. Just _go_.”

“But emo people scare me,” Louis whines as they turn into the store, picking his pants out of his butt— a little too loudly apparently because the guy unboxing shirts glares at him the way that makes him afraid of people with septum piercings.

“Bro, you need to learn the difference between emo and punk.” She leads a steadily whinging Louis over to the racks of coloured skinny jeans.

“Why are we even in here?”

“To get you trousers for that lovely Louis lump.”

Louis groans while Aisling laughs and holds out some ugly teal thing. Louis thinks it may possibly be an article of clothing, but it just doesn’t look like it should be worn… ever.

“What the hell do you want me to do with these?” he sniffs disparagingly, pinching at the fabric to find it doesn’t give at all. How is he even supposed to get them on? His butt is roughly the size of a 747, give or take a few centimetres.

“I want you to put them on. Along with these (red), and these (navy), and these (purple), and _these_ (burgundy). Fuck, you’ve got try these, Lou.”  The jeans hit Louis in flying flashes of colours he would never have considered acceptable. ( _Doesn’t_ consider acceptable.) He’s barely got enough room from being pelted in the face with ugly to see the vertically-striped star-spangled atrocities she’s ogling.

Seeing those… those _transgressions against fashion_ makes him question the universe’s judgement for a moment. Only a moment. He prefers not to be struck down even though he’s also getting real tired of this bullshit. The powers of destiny could have chosen any person on the planet besides Aisling. They literally had seven _billion_ other options.

But no.

Of course not.

_“Ruin Louis’ life,” they say._

_“It’ll be fun,” they say._

“No the hell I don’t,” he replies tenaciously. “I’ll try on these pretentious douchebag skinny jeans in any tacky colour you chuck at my head, but I draw the line at stars and stripes. I’m not the American fucking flag. I’d rather choke on a red, white, and blue dildo.”

“You know those are the colours of the UK’s flag as well… right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Now who’s being a pervy little incest…errrr?”

 

[][][][]

Louis stares at the evil cotton/spandex (Candex? Spotton?) contraption, trying to wrap his head around the idea once more that his thighs are supposed to fit into those holes. And what about after that? Where does his butt go? There’s no room for all the junk in his trunk.

“I don’t hear you getting naked!”

Louis grumbles for her to shut up and drops his sweats. Leaning against the wall for support, he worms his feet through the little openings then stops for a breath. He’s already winded. Maybe he has asthma, or his arteries are clogged with despair. With a burst of determination (because if not now then when?), Louis grabs the waistband and hauls them over his precious bits.

It’s actually a lot easier than he expected. Huh.

But he does have to suck in his gut to button them, and that’s irritating. Also irritating, there’s no mirror so he has to actually face the music and show Aisling to get an opinion. As far as the fit goes, it makes him feel both ridiculous and sexy at the same time. He wants to hate it, but he never thought about compacting his fat arse in tight clothes to make himself look smaller. Louis centres himself with a breath prior to leaving the stall.

“Oh my holy Jesus,” is the only thing he hears before he’s yanked around in a circle and slapped on places he doesn’t like to be slapped, not even as a kink. “Sweet damn, just holy fuck, okay.”

Was that a compliment? Aisling was obviously referring to Louis’ bottom, so maybe the pants didn’t help as much as he felt they did. Maybe they made it look bigger. “Is it that big?” Louis whines, suddenly uncomfortable in the skinny jeans.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t wan-”

“Oh, but you’re going to. Louis Marie Tomlinson, you got da nicest booty I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Marie?”

“Shut up. It works for you.. like these jeans. Fuck, Lou. If you weren’t sixteen and gay and my cousin…”

Louis turns around with a scowl on his face. He really doesn’t need her freaky shit right now. Not only is his bum reminiscent of the dome at St. Peter’s Basilica in these tighty tight tight things (he’s run out of names to mock skinny jeans), but he’ll have to worry about people seeing his Eiffel Tower as well. He’d rather them not.

“I don’t want them. No matter how ginormous they make my arse look.”

“I don’t care. You’re getting them.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at Aisling hoping to get his resolution across with a little attitude, but she just folds her arms and pops her hip out inviting him to challenge her. He lets the look fall and sighs. Whining always works sometimes. His voice is so fucking annoying that maybe he can get her to ditch him if he just whines a lot. “But people will see my boners.”

“Not they won’t. If you wear these, everyone will be walking behind you.” Aisling winks suggestively and pushes Louis back into the stall.

She said clothes were first.

What’s second?

[][][][]

Louis grumbles curses under his breath as he hauls around six giant bags full of skinny jeans and striped shirts (because nothing could possibly make him look gayer than he already does). Now he owns a pair of nurse shoes and ten fucking pairs of suspenders. Yes, _suspenders_. He’s going to split his crotch in half one day.

“Next, is hair. You need a haircut. And styling tips. You look like a weeping willow,” she informs him, steering him toward some salon with colour splats all over the window and a giant pair of scissors above it. Louis doesn’t like getting his hair done. He’s always too small to fit in the washing basin comfortably so he has a giant crick in his neck while the stylist burns him with the hairdryer and tries to rip all his hair out with a little comb.

The bell above the door jingles when it’s opened.

The place is done up sort of modern with a lot of geometrical shapes in black with splashes of colour here and there. It looks trendy, but not like Louis’ mum’s salon. It’s more teenager-ish and reeks of hair bleach and dry shampoo rather than fancy conditioners and hairspray.

“Leslie!” Aisling calls out, and oh fuck no. Leslie is Aisling’s partner in crime/ possible lesbian lover. Louis’s never been sure about the last one. They touch a lot though. Then, again Louis never touches anybody so his perception of affection is warped.

“Aishy!”

“Lesbo!”

“Fuck you.”

“Point proven.”

The two girls clash in a violent embrace, yelling something about bitches. Louis doesn’t care enough to listen. All he’s trying to do is slowly retreat out of the salon before Thing 1 and Thing 2 gangbang his mental health. He’s got his back on the door and his eyes on the back of Aisling’s head. He’s so close to being safe. He just has to push-

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

Louis jolts a half-step forward from the door. Knowing Aisling, she’d follow through on that threat.

“Louis Nicole Tomlinson…” Louis groans as Leslie’s big purple lips smirk around his name. (Except that’s not his name. Why’s everyone calling him girl names?) “What the fuck is that on your head?” Coming from the girl with a parrot on her head. There are so many bright colours spiked up in some weird girl version of a fauxhawk.

“Parrot?!” she squawks indignantly.

“Don’t listen to him,” Aisling interjects, cutting off Louis’ probably irrelevant comeback. “He’s doesn’t know how to interact with other human beings. I’ll translate for him. We’re here to help him move on. _He got rejected from The Beatles_.” She whispers the last part theatrically, motioning to his overgrown bowl cut. It actually used to be just really short, but his hair’s grown out like his mother had shaped it with kitchen scissors.

Louis tries to keep his expression stoic. He shall not dignify her with a gasp even though that was really fucking rude. Louis has _feelings_ , you know.

Leslie laughs and directs Louis to where he can set all the shopping bags. “What did you have in mind?”

“Umm… remember when he was fourteen?”

“Yeah, and his forehead was so fucking huge like his bitchy little ego?”

“Yes!”

Louis can’t help but scowl at that one while Aisling jumps up and down and claps her hands.

“Just keep that shit covered!”

“True fucking dat, babe. Whatever you want.” Leslie yanks Louis over to a washing basin and pushes his hair off his forehead. She then proceeds to cackle loudly as she begins washing his hair.

“And you wonder why I have self-image problems,” Louis calls to Aisling.

[][][][]

Louis walks out of the salon in a daze, partially from sitting deathly still (lest he have his ear burned or cut off) for two hours and also from _Holy shit did I just spend that much on my_ hair _?_ His hair looks good and all (it looks fucking great), but damn. Don’t people usually get a best friend discount with these kinds of things?

“Louis, shit, move some part of your face. You’re not blinking and it’s creepy.”

“Three _hundred_ pounds? You just spent three hundred fucking pounds?... On my _hair_?! What the hell, Aisling?! What… the _hell_?” Louis’ arms jostle the bags around as he waves them distraitly.

“You’re going to stand outside the next time I pay.”

“No! There’s not going to be a next time! This is outrageous! You need help.”

Aisling whips around on the sidewalk, and she looks about fucking done with his whining and complaining. “Shut _up_. Jesus Christ, I’m not the one who needs help. You need help. That’s what I’m trying to fucking do but you can’t just let me. No, of course not. You’ve got to act a goddamn diva the entire time. If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘Sorry I’m a little bitch I’ll fucking shut up now’, I’m going to make you deep throat a fucking cactus! Am I very clear?!”

Louis nods quickly, his blue eyes blown with fear.

“Great. Now we’re going to get you more TOMS because they’re really fucking cute on you. Keep up.” With that, Aisling spins back around and marches off down the street.

 

[][][][]

“Auntie Jay! We’re home!” Aisling calls out.

Louis’ mum should be home still. She usually doesn’t leave for work until four in the afternoon. Then she has the neighbours watch the girls until Louis gets home. It’s only about two now.

“Oh goodie! I can’t wait to see!” she yells back from the top level, dropping something heavy on the floor. Her excited footsteps pound across the ceiling like Lottie’s when Waliyha’s at the door. She stops on the middle of the stairs, a hand held to her chest and this look on her face like she’s so proud of him. Louis doesn’t know what for though. For letting his cousin spend at least a thousand pounds on making him look attractive?

“My handsome baby…” she whines, coving her mouth. Louis thinks he sees tears starting to form. Was he really that ugly before? Does the contrast really induce _tears_?

Well damn.

That’s mildly insulting.

His mother finishes down the stairs and holds her arms out. “I know you don’t hug, but come on. Humour me.” She wriggles her fingers cutely and expectantly, so Louis has no other choice but to sigh and give in, wrapping his arms around her loosely.

“Was I really that ugly?” Louis mumbles into her neck. Seriously, though. She almost cried. Her eyes got misty.

“No!” His mum pulls back and grabs his face and levels their eyes. “It’s just…” She sniffles mid-sentence. “… my little Louis booey bear is growing up!” she wails, constricting Louis in a deathly tight hug as she cries.

Awkwardly, Louis raises his hands to rub at her arms while discreetly trying to pull them away from his neck. It’d be a shame for him to asphyxiate when Aisling just shit out a bank for him.

“Aww! Auntie Jay!” Aisling cries with her, turning this two-sided whatever into a group hug.

 _Fuck me_ , Louis groans in his head, disgruntled.

 

[][][][]

_Fuck me_ , Louis groans in his head, desperately. He peeks through a crack in the door to the empty teacher’s lounge. Just down the corridor, almost out of sight, is Zayn Malik and also his friends but mostly Zayn Malik.

He swears by the stars in the sky, by the moon and the sun, by air and life and death and existence that Zayn Malik was made to wear leather jackets. He just was. He looks so fucking hot, Louis wants to put his dick in his shoe.

...Ignore that. Louis doesn’t know what he wants. He can’t think straight with that piece of molten hot caramel fogging up the hallway with his tasty pheromones.

Suddenly the door flings back into Louis’ face.

“Holy shit,” he cries, falling backwards onto his arse. He grabs at his forehead, wincing.

“What the he- Tomlinson! What are you doing in here?!”

“My face,” he moans in response. Thank god he doesn’t have to answer that question right now. Broken brains is a good enough subject change.

His maths teacher looks him up and down then steps to the side. “This is staff only. Please leave.”

“But my _face_.”

“Do I look like a nurse? Go to the infirmary if your face hurts.”

The bulky man, who also doubles as the wrestling coach, yanks Louis up by his elbow and thrusts him into the hallway. The door closes, then opens again as Louis’ backpack flies out to join him on the floor.

“Fuckin prick,” Louis mutters, sitting up.

“You alright?” a deep voice sounds above Louis, which causes his eyes to pop open. He’s looking at some stupid Converse shoes printed like the Union Jack. Either it’s a really manly woman or a guy with the fashion sense of a thirteen year old wannabe punk. Louis’ eyes slowly trail up the overly tight denim skinny jeans to a matching Union Jack belt buckle then a white polo shirt. Louis is judging this guy so hard. But then he sees his face.


	2. Thank you, I'd like some desperate measures please

  
**"I can't let this, I can't let this go**   
**When I got you right where I want you**   
**I've been pushing for this for so long**   
**Kiss me just once for luck**   
**These are desperate measures now"**   


**Desperate Measures – Marianas Trench**

And it’s Harry to the f-u-c-king Styles. Of fucking course.

The boy with the world’s worst fashion sense holds his (abnormally large) hand out to Louis, who just stares at it then scrambles to his feet on his own.

“Sorry about him,” Harry smiles, unaffected by Louis’ rejection. “He’s a dick to everyone. Are you new?”

With his bag now on his shoulder, Louis raises an eyebrow at the curly-haired fool in front of him. “Uh, no?”

“Haz! Who’re you talking to?” someone shouts.

“Some new kid!” he shouts back.

The patter of footsteps closes in on the two boys, but Louis’ just a little bit irked. Yeah, he may have lied low until this point, but he just told him he isn’t new. What part of ‘no’ does this idiot not understand?

“I’m not new,” Louis snips. His right hand goes to his hip instinctually. “I just said that. Two seconds ago.”

“Right, sorry.” Harry brushes him off—not rudely, but kind of naturally dismisses Louis’ words before even processing them. Louis’s not sure if it’s because of stupidity or because he’s an arsehole.

Louis scoffs and makes to leave except right there—right fucking there. He’s right there. Zayn Malik is right there. Excuse Louis while he salivates on hamster. (Again, ignore that.)

“Harry’s an asshat. Don’t mind him. Louis—right? Yeah, he’s not new, Haz.” Zayn smacks Harry who seems to have drifted off into the round world of Louis’ bum. “Not new.”

“I would’ve noticed an arse like that,” Harry replies, and it seems like he’s just flipped a switch like his body is a neon sign from the Fifties and now he’s open for business. He gives Louis a smirk, which causes him to blush and fuck his life in his head.

“Could you—oh, I don’t know— _not_?! Jesus Christ, you pervert.” Louis shifts so that his butt can no longer be ogled by Harry (and he definitely hasn’t angled it toward Zayn (yes he has)).

“What can I say? Your mouth is like a stubborn bouncer to a club I want to get into. Club Butt, that is.”

“Oh my god, this isn’t happening. I’m leaving.” Louis groans, his face redder than his pants, and begins walking away. Harry, do the world a favour and never become a poet nor a philosopher. There’ll be a new kind of PTSD for people who’ve listened to him talk, Louis’s sure. It was like watching molasses slowly slide down a plate and onto your new pants. You know what’s coming; you just don’t have the reserved capacity to stop it before it happens. Then, you’re scarred for life by your mother beating you with a wooden spoon before church. (Maybe if Louis was a small black child living in the 1890 American South).

“Louis.”

Louis turns around at Zayn’s call.

“Add me to the waiting list.” Zayn winks, and for some reason ( _all_ the reasons) Louis doesn’t think it looks so stupid when Zayn does it.

Louis blushes and spins around to continue walking away before Zayn (who must’ve only been joking) can see just what that comment did to him exactly. He kind of wants to scream and put his dick in his shoe while salivating on a hamster while riding arse naked on the back of a mighty stallion. There’s no telling what that would look like in terms of facial expressions.

[][][][]

“Hey, babycakes.”

Louis wants to groan and shake his plastic fork to the sky as he curses the universe. This little makeover business was supposed to simulate the mating call which would attract the allusive English-Pakistani dick, but instead it seems to be attracting the English dickface, an entirely different species. But in place of flipping off the universe, Louis just gives Harry a very unamused side-eye. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows all suggestively, except he really can’t move the left one very well so he looks like he’s having a series of muscle spasms around his eyebrows.

“No, but I know what I want.”

“Oh?” Harry smirks dirtily. “And that is?”

“For you to piss off.”

“Zayn, he’s mean,” Harry pouts, looking over Louis’ head.

“No, you’ve just got your head so far up your arse you can’t see when someone wants you to shut the fuck up.” Zayn shakes the table as he sits down beside Louis, which is weird because The Whole Wheats usually sit exclusively with each other and no one else except maybe cheerleaders sometimes.

“And that’s everyone basically,” Niall adds in his infamous Irish accent. There are a few Irish students, but Niall’s the first to go full on flaggot and wear green and orange everywhere he goes. He sits down beside Harry. Liam follows him, sitting on Niall’s other side. He lets out a little chuckle, but other than that he’s down to stuffing his face at lunch instead of talking like the rest of them. Liam Payne also known by Louis as _the Sane One_.

Louis stabs a chip with his fork, wondering where he went right. It’s probably the haircut.

“You eating that with a fork?” Niall says, just asking to get the shit backhanded through him. Or maybe he isn’t and he’s just joking around. The difference doesn’t really matter. Louis’s kind of seeing red at the moment. Zayn’s friends are infuriating, except for the Liam one, but that’s yet to be decided. Let him open his mouth, though. See what happens.

“Yes, I _would_ like to stab you in the dick with a fork. Thanks for asking.”

“Sheesh, cool off, bro.” Niall makes a face at Louis then shoves an entire sandwich into his mouth. The whole thing. At once. Okay, it was a finger sandwich but still. How uncouth.

“You wanna fork?” Zayn offers his fork to Louis, smirking at him all sexy like, sharp teeth hiding just behind those big pink lips.

“I’d love to fu-ork. I’d love your fork. I mean– Yes, the fork. I want it.” Louis takes the fork and throws it at Niall. It bounces off his forehead. Fifty points to Gryffindor (although Louis has always identified better with Slytherin).

“Oi! You coulda blinded me!”

“No need to fight now,” Liam cuts in. He has this father voice, and if Louis had a daddy kink it would’ve gone straight to his dick. Speaking of, he’s willing down the world’s most persistent boner at the moment. Zayn keeps giving him this _look_ and squinting his eyes so seductively Louis’ balls would’ve dropped if they hadn’t already.

A cute girl with apple red hair passes by and brushes her fingertips along Zayn’s shoulder, smiling suggestively when Zayn smirks up at her.

Who the fuck told that wench that it’s okay to just _touch_ Zayn Malik whenever she fucking likes? She a damn fool if she thinks she even got a chance with a super OG nigga like Zayn, ya feel?

(In the future, Louis will wonder what the hell that was and why he thought that sentence.)

“So, Louis…” Louis can feel his body physically move towards Zayn’s voice. “What are you up to lately?”

 _Reeling my heart back into my bum._ “Nothing. Surviving my dick shit crazy cousin, Aisling.”

“Tomlinson?”

“You know her?” Of fucking course he does. Aisling has to ruin everything for him. Darn her. Darn her to heck.

“Yeh, she used to watch me when I was younger. Gave me my first proper snog.”

Okay, no. No, don’t darn her to heck.

_Damn. Her. To. HELL._

“Oh,” Louis squeaks, close to murder, closer to choking off the remaining sliver of soul that hasn’t already died in his dark, rotting chest cavity.

“Fantastic kisser, that one.”

“Wonder if it runs in the family.”

“Fuck off, Harry.” Louis shoots the little freak a glare. He just doesn’t understand how Harry can look so adorable and innocent like one of the Jonas Brothers cherubs from _Night At The Museum_ yet act like he’s got the sexual prowess of Catwoman à la _Batman Returns_.

Liam nods, unscrewing the cap off a Gatorade in one twist unlike Louis who usually ends up crying because there’s no skin left on his hand and the lid didn’t even come off. “That was a little creepy, mate.”

 _Not as creepy as going at it with someone who’s still young enough to be babysat_ , Louis thinks bitterly.

[][][][]

Louis storms into the house (read: walks in the same way he does every day but with slightly more ambition). “I’m about to motherfucking kill this punk-ass bitch. Somebody better hold my earrings. Shit’s about to get real,” he fumes, scrolling through the contacts on his phone with one hand and holding a twin against his side with the other.

“Mummy told me you’re not upposed to say that.”

“Did she also tell you the condom broke?”

“What’s a con-”

Lottie quickly slaps a hand over Felicite’s mouth while telling her that she’s not supposed to say that word either. Lottie shoos the six-year-old to the kitchen with a promise of a Nutella and banana sandwich when actually she wants to get her little sister away from Louis before she picks up anymore new words during Louis’ sure-to-come hissy fit. After putting Daisy in her high chair, Lottie rushes back into the front room to grab Phoebe before scuttling back into the kitchen.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“How _dare_ you!” Louis snarls into the speaker, skipping the pleasantries because this conversation will most definitely not be pleasant if Louis’ intentions are fulfilled.

“ _Oh my god, you just saw that?_ ”

“Just saw what?”

“ _Nothing. Sorry..._ ” The sound of a drawer slamming echoes in the background.“ _What did I dare?_ ”

“You kissed the love of my life! That’s what you dared!”

“ _I’m sorry! He was right there! You can’t blame me. It was_ Hugh Jackman _for Christ’s sake!_ ”

Louis’ eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Hugh Jackman?”

“Nothing again! Don’t worry about it. Who did I kiss?”

Then, they shoot up in shock. “You kissed Hugh Jackman?!” Louis gasps in horror. “Oh my god! How could you?! You fucking bitch! First, you kiss Hugh Jackman, then you kiss Zayn! Or maybe it’s the other way around but I don’t fucking care! Why must you kiss all the men that I love?!” Louis’ arm flails out and almost knocks one of Satan’s baby pictures off a table.

“ _Whoawhoawhoa! Hold on there! I didn’t kiss anyone named Zayn._ ”

“Are you sure?” Louis asked, almost relieved. “He’s kinda skinny? Dark, dark brown hair? Honey, sometimes hazel eyes?” He pauses after each trait in case he’s jogged her memory. “Of the Middle Eastern and white persuasions?”

“ _Oh! Yeah, I kissed him. What of it?_ ”

If fire was to suddenly blast out of Louis’ mouth and eye sockets at this exact moment, the doctors examining his charred corpse wouldn’t even be surprised. They’d just be like ‘yep, she kissed Zayn Malik. Bitch shoulda known better’. “HE IS MY GODDAMN SOULMATE. THAT’S WHAT’S OF IT, YOU HARLOT!”

“ _Chill out. Jeezus. He was like thirteen._ ”

“… That means you were nineteen! That was legally paedophilia, you sick fuck!”

“ _He started it._ ”

“What— how does that— how do you even— You know what? No. I’m not even— goodbye.” Louis snaps his phone shut before he has an irreversible mental breakdown. This is exactly the kind of shit that makes him wonder if his mum knew about the rest of his step-dad’s side of the family before she married him.

[][][][]

“Are you okay, Lou?”

Louis groans into his pillow at the sound of Lottie’s voice. He just wants to be left alone. He’s kind of in the middle of a crisis right now if she can’t tell by the darkness of his room or the way he’s been flopped face-down in his bed for at least half an hour. “Why does everyone ask me that?”

“Because you had a meltdown when Felicite asked for another biscuit and asked her why she couldn’t be happy with one biscuit and why she had to kiss all the biscuits you love?”

Louis pushes himself up, suddenly filled with anger. “That’s because she kisses all the fucking biscuits before anyone else gets one. What if I wanted that fucking biscuit? What if I’ve waited for that biscuit for five fucking years? She gets everything she wants, so why can’t I have one goddamn biscuit?!” He collapses back into his pillow where he screams for a second because he hasn’t thrown a proper tantrum in years and he _needs_ this.

Lottie sighs and takes a seat on the bed beside her brother. She runs small hand through his hair the way that she’s seen her mum when she wants to settle Louis. “I’m sensing this isn’t actually about Felicite or biscuits.”

Louis hollers into his pillow again.

“Look, I know I’m not much. I’m just a stupid eleven-year-old, but you can talk to me about it if you want.”

“I just want to be happy,” Louis whimpers this time, sounding as pathetic as he feels.

“Then be happy. Louis, you’re a really lucky guy. You’ve got parents who love you—”

“My dad didn’t love me.”

“What? How could you say that? Of course he loves you! He loves all of us!”

“Not talking about Mark.”

Lottie rolls her eyes out of annoyance at the person her brother is referring to. “Well, pardon my language but Troy made a prick move by letting you go. You are the wittiest, funniest, most caring guy I know. I know that sometimes you like to act like you’re too cool to show it, but you still do even if you don’t mean to by helping out so much with me and the girls and not ignoring me at school just because it’s bad for your rep. You know Waliyha’s brother won’t even look at her in the hallway? I love you so much, Louis, and I’m so thankful for you. You don’t even need to worry about biscuits or kissing or _whatever_ it is that’s got you upset because you’re still Louis without all that, and we’ll always love you no matter what.”

She waits a few moments for Louis to respond but all she hears is a little sniffle. “Are you _crying_?”

“No,” Louis snivels. “I’ve just got a pillow in my eye.”

“Aww, Louis!” Lottie flings herself on her brothers back in an awkward hug. “You _do_ have a soul!”

A wet laugh bubbles out of Louis’ mouth before he can stop it. “Oh, shut up.”

Lottie giggles into Louis’ back then sits back up. “Alright, but if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here and I’ll listen. And I’ll only judge you a little bit.”

Louis pushes himself up as well, wiping his eyes with his wrists as he smiles irrepressibly. “You’re insufferable.”

“But you love me.”

“Yes, unfortunately I do.”

[][][][]

Louis officially decides that he only likes Zayn. Between the stolen food from Niall and Liam’s tendency to manhandle his delicate figure in bone crushing cuddles—between Harry goddamn Styles and his existence—Louis can only really stand Zayn, but it’s been a month and the others won’t leave him the fuck alone.

“Mate, look at these.” Niall holds up some magazine, and Louis finds his eyes being poked out by two gigantic nipples. “Fuckin perfect, they are.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to say this to you. Niall, I am gay. Homosexual. I do not get the same sick pleasure that you do from staring at female anatomy all day.”

“What about this one?” he asks, showing him another picture of a girl with her legs spread wide. “If you ignore the vagina, she kinda looks like a man.”

“I’m about two seconds away from harvesting your blood for a ritual sacrifice and staking your head in my front yard. Put that shit away.”

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“You’re not wanking in my bathroom.”

“Fine then.” Niall has his hand half in his pants before Louis’s beating the fucking shit out of him with a rolled up issue of _Cosmo_.

“No! Bad Niall!”

“What is going on in here?”

Both of the boys pause to look up at Zayn and Harry (but mostly Zayn).

“I found Louis’ porn stash but he won’t let me wank now that I’ve seen it. It’s his fault. Under the mattress. How predictable,” Niall spits out, glaring at Louis while the other boy splutters out an explanation for the dirty magazines.

“They’re not mine! Well they are, but not since I was like twelve. I mean like, I’m so far past gay it’s not even funny.”

“That’s cool,” Zayn smiles. “Harry’s bisexual, and I don’t have a preference myself, so we’re not gonna judge you.”

Louis is very tempted to say that he knows Zayn doesn’t have a preference because he kissed Aisling, but he refrains because he wants the d. You know what they say—don’t bite the d that feeds you. Or will feed you in the future if everything works out.

“Speaking of preferences, I heard that Liam was nominated to be a prefect next year.”

“How is that speaking of preferences?”

“Prefect, preferences—they both start with the same letters,” Harry shrugs.

“But I thought you had to run to be a prefect? Like they can’t just put your name on the list without asking, can they?”

“Apparently they can cos Liam is freaking the fuck out right now.”

“Speaking of Liam—this’s the correct way to use that transition, Harry—where is he?” Louis asks, relishing in the way Harry actually looks mildly affected by the world around him for once in his life.

“In your sister’s room. The oldest one. What is it… Charlotte? Yeah, that one.”

Louis shoots up at that, hurrying over all the people on the floor of his bedroom. “She’s not allowed to have boys in her room. She’s just a baby.” He has his hand on the door knob just as Zayn says:

“Relax, Louis. It’s Liam. The worst he would do is sneeze into one of her plushies. He’s way too old for her anyway.”

“Yeah, well fix or six years haven’t stopped some people,” Louis snips, marching out of the door which flies back open not even a second later. “And nobody’s putting their face anywhere near her plushy or I’ll roast them in a fire pit like a fuckin pig at a luau.” With that, he slams the door again and stomps down the hall to Lottie and Felicite’s room. He doesn’t hesitate before throwing the door open to reveal Liam crying into his sister’s shoulder as she pats his back awkwardly.

“I just don’t know what to do! I’m not prefect material! My grades are average, and I’m friends with Niall and Zayn. It’s literally impossible to set a good example with those two roping me into their shenanigans left and right.”

“I’m sure you would be a wonderful prefect, Liam,” Lottie says soothing, shooing Louis away with one of her hands. “ _Get. Out_ ,” she mouths.

Louis takes a look at Liam in his blubbering, pitiful state and decides that it might be okay if Liam works this out with someone even if it is his sister. Louis motions to his legs, then snaps them shut with a warning look on his face.

Lottie gives him her best ‘I swear to god’ face, not letting it fall until after Louis has pointed at his eyes then to her and left.

Louis shuts the door quietly, but squeaks loudly when he turns around and Zayn is _right there,_ looking awfully menacing and sexy in the shadowy hallway. He pulls Louis into the twins’ empty nursery—Louis’ mum had taken the twins and Felicite out to run errands—and shuts the door behind them.

“What was that about?”

“What was what?” Louis replies absently, just a little bit overwhelmed at the idea of being alone with Zayn and manhandled by Zayn and fucked into a My Little Pony blanket by Zayn.

“That five or six years comment.” Zayn doesn’t look too pleased, but Louis refuses to back down like a quaking Chihuahua. This is his house dammit.

“I don’t know. I was trying to prove a point.”

Zayn stares at Louis, clearly not satisfied with that answer.

“It was in the heat of the moment!” Louis exclaims, throwing his hands up to show surrender.

“There was absolutely no heat in that moment whatsoever.”

“There was too! There was plenty of heat!”

“Nope. It wasn’t even lukewarm.”

“Do you even know what ‘heat of the moment’ means?!”

“Do _you_ even know what ‘heat of the moment’ means?”

"Yes!"

“I don’t think you do.”

“Yeah?! Well, if you think you’re so smart, why don’t you explain it to—”

Louis’ words die on Zayn’s lips as he’s pushed back against the door by two bony hands. Not that it took much force to do so as Louis was submissive in every sense of the word anytime Zayn touched him which wasn’t often up to this point.

Speaking of points, Louis almost feels like dying because these baby blue skinny jeans do absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he is already half hard from a kiss. He’s just praying that Zayn won’t notice.

Which means that Zayn does notice because he smirks against Louis’ mouth, pulling Louis hips flush against his to grind them together in a way that has Louis knocking his head back against the door and gasping, more from pleasure than pain.

Right now, his diamond city is looking a lot like getting off with Zayn Malik in a nursery, but for once in his life Louis doesn’t feel like making a big deal out of the technicalities.

[][][][]

“So, who’s finished their maths assignment?” Liam tries to put in conversationally.

“Can you not talk about maths? I’d rather not vomit at the table,” Louis grumbles, stabbing another chip. This whole ‘everyone heard Zayn Malik give me a blowjob in my sisters’ nursery’ situation is enough to embarrass him til he’s sick. The last thing he needs is to worry about his below average grade in that godforsaken subject.

“He probably vomits cute,” Louis hears Harry whisper-yell into Niall’s ear like he wanted everyone within a ten kilo radius to hear it.

“Yes,” Niall rolls his eyes. “I bet his vomit comes out like rainbows and kittens. Now shut the hell up. M’tryna eat.”

“Niall, be nice. If Harry thinks he vomits cute, you should respect his opinion.” Liam Payne: Voice of Reason.

“Why are we talking about vomit?” Zayn inquires. Louis also wonders how one comment could go so terribly awry.

“Because you stole my man, Malik. That’s why.”

Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry, drinking his soup out of his Green Lantern thermos. “What? Do you wanna duel over it or summat?”

“Yes,” Harry replies seriously.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I know a guy with some airsoft guns. Zayn, does it look like I’m kidding you?”

“I don’t know. The look on your face right now says disgruntled kitten,” Zayn smirks.

“Oh, it’s on, Malik! Meet me at my house after school. The first one to cry loses and has to give up pursuing Louis.”

“I accept your challenge.”

Niall regards Harry with a doubtful expression. “Harry, mate, didn’t you cry last week when your mum brushed your hair?”

“Shut the fuck up, Niall. I did not.”

“You do know,” Louis interjects, feeling mighty fine because he has two hot guys about to shoot each other with plastic pellets in order to win his affection, “I still won’t go out with you, Harry. You’re cute and all, but you’re a handful of grapes and I’m a raisin man. You have the right fruit, but not the right flavour if you get what I’m saying. But that guy over there has been looking at you for weeks.”

“Everybody looks at me.”

“ _Wow_ , and modest too? Geez, I’m really letting go of a catch here, aren’t I?” Louis laughs as Harry chucks a grape at him.

“Fine then! Have a grape, Grape Man!”

“At least he’s not the Grapist.”

The whole table blows up at Liam’s unexpected comment with indignant shouts and crows of laughter.

As completely fucked up as Aisling is, even with all the trouble that Aisling caused him, Louis knows that he owes his newly found self-confidence, his renewed motivation, his amazing group of friends, and the smile on his face to one person:

 

 

 

 

Zayn Malik.

 

What? You didn’t think he was going to say _Aisling_ , did you? She is the rain on his Sunday picnic. She is the parasite living in his intestines. She is what you get when Voldemort and Lindsay Lohan forget to use protection while fucking in a nuclear testing site. Going through all that shit with Aisling didn’t really help him realise that maybe Louis can’t charm the pants off everyone or run a marathon or start a flash mob or sculpt a masterpiece, but he _can_ give excellent head. The light of his life and the wind beneath his wings, Zayn Baguette Malik did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, so there it is. There is what I have done. I'm sorry the ending sucked. I had a good idea, I just had so many that they all wanted to come out at once and my brain short-circuited. BUT I FUCKING FINISHED THIS FINALLY AND THAT'S WHAT MATTERS.

**Author's Note:**

> This note is going to be a fucking novel. Sit back. I have words for you.
> 
> I’M SO SORRY PRETTY MUCH THE ENTIRE STORY WAS ITALICISED. I just like to put emphasis on a lot of things.  
> Also, I used the word ‘faggot’ in ways that are not serious, so don’t set your tits on fire. It’s just for humour. Yes, I know it’s inappropriate and that I’m rude.
> 
> And I’m not from England (I COULD BE COPYING CANADIAN SPELLING OK). I don’t know anything about that country that I haven’t heard from YouTube videos or read on Google/Wikipedia. Basically I just googled where Liam went to school then found the domestic living area nearby and picked a mall. I don’t know what I’m doing.
> 
> I don’t actually know how to pronounce Aisling. I don’t know if it’s ash-ling or ay-sling or what. Degrassi was on when I chose her name. (Not that I watch it because I don’t.)
> 
> DO ENGLISH PEOPLE SAY PANTS SOMETIMES WHEN THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT THEIR TROUSERS? Fuck, it’s so awkward for me to say trousers. Like it’s just a pair of skinny jeans, no need to sound so formal. But I’m afraid I’ll say pants and someone will think underwear and it will get awkward. So yeah.
> 
> Bye.


End file.
